


Portrait

by MUSEquera



Category: Muse
Genre: Friendship/Love, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:24:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/802844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MUSEquera/pseuds/MUSEquera





	Portrait

"Describe him." you say, as though he were a landscape, without any conception of the Herculean task you set me. Yet I shall attempt it, not for your sake, but for mine, to paint a pristine new picture of him on my mind, to see him with fresh eyes, and appreciate anew all that makes him unique, this man of contrasts who has laid claim to my heart and my soul.  
  
Truly, I do not know where to start. Images of him blossom fully formed behind my closed eyelids, and choosing a part of him over another would be both injustice and sacrilege. It is all of him I love, not his component parts. But I digress. "Describe him." you bid me; not "Tell me of your love for him." And describe him I shall, but I shan't be able to help my love for him instilling every word that falls from my lips as I do so.

When you first look upon him, you could be forgiven for mistaking his small stature and slender build for weakness. Although his seeming frailty and vulnerability are wont to spark in others a need to protect him, he is neither feeble not weak, for his narrow frame and spindly limbs, wiry and resilient, are capable of surprising strength, holding me to him in the midst of passion as though I am his salvation until I have no breath left.

Should you not dismiss him as insignificant because of his slight figure, you would be rewarded by discovering the shining glory of his eyes. You won't know blue until you look into their depths, for they are of a blue so deep and bright that sapphires weep in shame, and the ocean recoils in envy of them. But think not that they are cold because of their shade, though they are capable of it when aroused to anger; when they look at me with love, they hold the warmth of a thousand suns, and drive away the lingering chill of doubt from my heart.

The backdrop for those eyes seems, at first, like nothing more than a jumble of angular and mismatched features jostling for space on his narrow face, and you wonder that such magnificence should be displayed on so common a setting. Still, on further inspection, as your eyes are drawn to each of those disparate, asymmetrical features, you can't help but discern their arresting beauty, and realise that the setting is, indeed, worthy of the twin jewels it bears. That oddly beguiling countenance defines my days, for it is the first thing my eyes seek when they open in the morning, and sleep overtakes me at night gazing at those sharp features as they soften in the aftermath of our love.

His skin... Ah, that pale alabaster skin... Luminous and translucent as moonbeam, softer and more supple than the richest velvet, it has the flawless lustre and glow of the most exquisite pearls. I live for the moment when, at the end of our day, I am able to feel its silken texture under my fingertips, its subtle fragrance in my nostrils, its peerless taste on my lips.

Were you to meet him, you would think his hands well suited to his calling, for they are slender, elegant and expressive, their tapered fingers long and sensitive. Not delicate, no. Strong and supple, they have been tempered in the forge of his piano's keys, bone and sinew and vein stark under the smooth skin. Hands made for pleasure, they fly like swallows over the keyboard, sublime sound in their wake; they alight as soft as butterflies' wings to trace the contours of my face, and close around me, firm and assertive, as they stroke me to completion.

"What of his mouth?” You ask. His mouth knows all the secrets of my body, mapped with tender lips and probing tongue and sharp teeth. Picture thin yet soft lips that draw up to a tight line in anger, but are full and generous in his crooked smiles. I cherish his mouth, for it is the gateway for the odd, wheezing, braying sound of his laughter, so infectious and careless, so free and joyful, that even the gloomiest thoughts flee before it.

But for all his physical beauty, I loved the workings of his mind before I learnt to worship his body, in those long gone days when friendship had not yet blossomed into love. I imagine his mind, that wellspring of brilliance tinged with insanity that both challenges and delights me, as a landscape of bright light and deepest shadow, where shadings of grey are an impossibility. A place of nightmares and visionary dreams, of incisive discourse and childish nonsense, of extraordinary virtuosity and abysmal clumsiness.

"Describe him." You said. And I fear my words failed to do him justice. For he is not to be defined by the shape of his hands or the colour of his eyes. Nor can he be reduced to his wits and machinations. He is all of that, but more.

Warm, vibrant, bright, fickle and volatile. Dangerous, boundless, fierce, loyal and all consuming.

Unpredictable.

Unknowable.

Indescribable.

 

 


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